


Plan

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Soulmate AUs [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 17:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19706368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: He assumes it's a fever at first, some lingering malady beyond the talents of the so-called "Witch of the Wilds". It's no big deal, could be worse.Except itisworse.





	Plan

**Author's Note:**

> **Big bold reminder that I don't own Dragon Age or any of its content.** I merely play in the sandbox Bioware created.

He assumes it's a fever at first, some lingering malady beyond the talents of the so-called "Witch of the Wilds". It's no big deal, could be worse. He could be dead like everyone on that battlefield, left to slaughter and an afterlife without dignity, bodies strewn about as snacks for the Darkspawn. Or he could be in the process of dying, like Amell, there's such a slim chance she'll make it.

But she survives, and he's survived, and a fever seems like a small price to pay for the chance to... set things right and maybe, just maybe, save Ferelden.

It's a fever that doesn't break. No, it gets _worse_.

* * *

By the fourth day he wants to claw his skin off. By the seventh he's severely put out to learn that neither mage can conjure a stream from thin air or drop a storm atop his head. There are so few bathing opportunities in their travels and he can't be wandering around without his armour on - they've been ambushed enough times for him to know better, thank you very much - but it is... _tempting_ to risk it. And if it helps keep a cart's length between Morrigan and he, well, all the better, right?

He knows better. He knows a fever - or whatever it is - isn't worth dying for. He's a Grey Warden, he has responsibilities. He'll get them done.

* * *

_Three_ mages, one of them a bloody healer, and they can't help him. Wynne even turns round and says there's nothing wrong with him. Nothing! Well hah. Joke's on her, isn't it? Tell that to the blood boiling in his veins and the sweat sticking his underclothes to his unmentionables!

Who the fuck designed armour anyway? Leather armour, to boot. Did they not realise comfort and _not_ being cooked alive in one's armour was a thing?!

It is a plague, a creeping death, souring his mood something terrible and it makes sitting near the campfire on watch his own personal brand of torture. He just wants a _break_ , damn it, even just for an hour. Is that really too much to ask for?

* * *

He's heard of Fury demons. Monstrous beasts of fire and fury, spewing up from the ground and gobbling their victims whole, engulfing mages in their fists and burning them to ash and cinders before they can scream for aid or the Templars.

He's positive he's possessed by one. What else can turn his body so completely against him? What else can cripple his fighting ability and render him _such_ a liability in battle? What else can eat away at his sense and good manners until he snaps at his - companions and retreats to the shadows or outskirts or his own tent in shame? What else can so tempt him to beg a swift death from the Qunari now in their ranks?

There _is_ an alternative, and he nearly laughs himself sick when Wynne suggests it. A _soulmate_? For _him_? Not a chance, that's a mage thing.

Of course, then he locks blades with an Antivan assassin and a Maker-damned fireball lodges in his chest, burns his heart to a crisp and those wicked eyes widen in surprise.

"Oh," says the elf _sent to kill them_ , "oh this is a _delicious_ surprise."

Alistair whacks him on the head and - and for some reason doesn't step back when the elf crumples, slumping into his body and sliding to the ground in a vulnerable heap at his feet. No. No, _no._ It's not possible. It's not happening.

Except it is, and Amell spares the bastard, and he _hounds_ Alistair for hours. Questions upon questions, attempts at sneaking closer, murder fingers reaching out to _touch_ and Alistair scurries away from him, shamelessly sticks to Morrigan's side if only to keep the assassin at bay (twitchy, he notices, around her in particular). It's a good thing he keeps his distance, too. Amell seems partial to him and Alistair wants nothing more than to lock his hands around his throat and choke the life from him by nightfall.

They're _not_ soulmates. It's just some stupid fairy tale parents tell their kids to hide the horrors of the world from them.

* * *

"Tell me your name," the assassin says, and Alistair tries ever so hard to keep the scowl on his face. He's naked under the blanket - _thank you_ , never ending fever-plague-thing - and no weapons are in reach and he straddles his hips and it's _awkward_ in such a southerly direction for an _obvious_ reason.

There is only one point of skin-to-skin contact between them, however, and that's the fingertip under Alistair's chin. He feels... _chilly_. For the first time in weeks he doesn't feel like he's a holiday ham roasting on the spit. _It can't be._

"You've already heard it. Now get off."

"Ah, but another voicing it does not compare to the weight of _you_ sharing it. I ask again, Warden. Tell me your name."

"Technically that isn't asking."

The elf leans down until their noses almost touch and he should buck him off, struggle, make noise because there's an _assassin_ at his throat, but -

But he relaxes instead, something recognising him on an instinctual level, tension and scalding temperature all but gone and he _trembles_ in the wake of their departure. Peace, his body finally knows _peace_.

"Alistair," he says quietly, a hesitant olive branch, and the elf hums. If he closes his eyes he can almost _feel_ it in his bones.

"Alistair," the elf says, as if testing it on his tongue, savouring it, "a good name. Tell me, Alistair, what are the Ferelden customs regarding soulmates? We have some _wild_ ones back in Antiva but I wouldn't want to, ah, _alarm_ you any further."

"Maker but I hate you, elf."

"So you say, but your body seems delighted to see me. My mistake."

"Wait!" He stops him from leaving - why? _Why does he stop him from leaving?_ "What do I call you?"

"You already know my name, _Alistair_ , but handsome, for a start."

"Oh fuck you."

The elf - Zevran, Zevran his _soulmate_ , he actually has a soulmate, _Zevran_ \- laughs and flashes a positively wicked grin. "Oh, my dear Warden, that is the plan."


End file.
